--- HAIRCUTS & WEINERS ---
11th September 2019

So I got my hair cut last night, like I do every two weeks. My cell is on the second floor and it faces two T.V.s so I was able to sit in my chair and watch the Patriots game as I got trimmed up.

My barber is a Latino who's filled with the stereotypical Latin machismo. I think he's also gay too. He uses a razor blade from a razor that is attached to a comb. It's a funny looking contraption but it works. I get a fade on the sides and have it short on top. Same thing every time. So last night as I'm sitting in my chair getting my trim in nothing but a pair of boxers, I keep feeling him rubbing his junk on my elbow as he maneuvers around my head. The first time I felt it I wrote it off to it possibly being an accident. But after the third time, I told him, "Hey there, Pablo. Rub that weiner one more time against me and I'm gonna lop it off and throw it over the rail like it's Tom Brady throwing a pass into the end zone."

He laughed, then said, "No, Meester Yeff. Eees no weiner. Eees a cock!" I said, not unless my elbow's getting a false-positive, but whatever eat ees, if you wanna keep it, quit rubbing it against my elbow like you're some kinda sex offender." This exchange led to a discussion about penis sizes and their adequate titles, based on their size (this is my theory). Only in prison, right?

I told him, "If ees 5 inches or less, it's a weiner; 5-7 inches is a dick; and anything over 7 and you've got yourself a bonafide cock." Then, I finshed my penal seminar (pun intended), "Comprende, Senor Weiner?" He laughed and finished my haircut without any more physical contact. Meester Yeff obviously got his point across. Hallelujah!

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- LABOR DAY FROG ---
2nd September 2019

So it's Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend and my labor of the morning is that I'm down in the indoor rec center printing off the scores from the college games yesterday, and printing off some address labels so I can send my friend Gucci something down in another block. There's only two printers in this joint, one's in the library and the other one's in the indoor rec center. It's a screwy system, but this is prison and the whole damn place is screwy. Every time that I see the shift change for the guards and see them coming down the sidewalk towards my cell block, I say to whoever's around, "Here comes the Insane Clown Posse."

So I'm standing at the printer station and I notice movement in the window . I see something trying to crawl up the bars. When I lean-in and look a little closer, I see that it's a tree frog. He's a little fat one too, but he looks like he's had either a rough night, is on the run, or he's strung-out on flies and he's down at the indoor rec center trying to cop, but that he's out of stamps. I go to pick him up and he can't even hop away because he has hair and garbage and dust all over him. So I scoop him up in my palm and take him into the bathroom and run water over him (from the sink). Being that I've had two frogs as pets during this 20 yr hostage crisis (Gangster and Shorty Morgan, God bless the dead), I consider myself something of an armchair frogologist. Not to get all wordy on you this Labor Day weekend, but I know that frogs are subcutaneous; they drink through their skin. I also know that they don't have tongues and love flies. After washing him off, I bring him home.

When I get him back to my cell, I see that he's a little beast. Coming in, he mean-mugs my cellie and give him a look like, "And what, fool?" I had just watched a piece on ESPN about the Chicago Bears acquiring Kahlil Mack (an awesome defensive player), so Da Bears were fresh in my mind. And the more I looked at the frog, he looked like a Chicago Bear, except Green. So I named him Mike Ditka after the legendary Bear coach. When I called him by his new name and asked him, "Are you hungry, Mike Ditka?" he gave me the googly eyes, and looked at me like I had crickets in my pocket.

He seemed like he wanted to stay for a while, so I built him a little frogitat in the window that consists of a Yellow peanut butter jar lid with water in it for a pool (this is Florida, after all) and I wrapped paper around an empty vitamin bottle to give him some privacy in his new house. Then I made a little sign and hung it above his house that says "Green Lives Matter." Finally, I explained the rules of the cell to him, and then I picked him up and held him on my finger. I told him, "Even if you never get no bigger, you'll always be my little nigga." He seemed to like that, and with that, the bonding process was over.

This is the Labor Day story of my new rescue frog, Mike Ditka. I'll let you guys know how he's adapting to prison. But from the way it looks, he should do just fine.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2